She Speaks
by Lasgalendil
Summary: "In that moment I remembered every step that had born me hence, all the heartache and hurt of my long life, and the healing I had found at last within in his love. I strung my bow and steeled myself. This could not be the end. This would not be the end. I am Tauriel Dorndîs, and this is neither the beginning—nor ending—of my tale." pre-BoFA and beyond.
1. Heir of Dúrin, Heir of Stone

A story, little one? Very well, a story I shall tell you.

The Battle of Erebor, again? Would you not rather hear of Túrin Turambar, who slew Glaurung the great wyrm? Or of Nimrodel, who in the mountains strayed? Or yet of Lúthien, most loved and most fair? Or of Legolas the King's son, who has sailed over the Sea, and Gimli Elf-friend who went with him?

I could recount for you of Dúrin the Deathless, and the beauty of Khazad-dûm in the days of old when the Dwarves awoke and beheld the stars of Kheled-zarâm. Or yet of Telchar I could tell you, who forged Angrist which cut the Silmarils from the crown of Morgoth, and the Dragon Helm of Dor-lómin which Túrin wore of old. I would speak to you of Azaghâl the valiant, who faced Glaurung in the Battle of Many Tears or of Dáin, the Ironfoot, who slew Azog at Azanulbizar and fell beside Brand son of Bain against the armies of the North…

Erebor again. Very well. Of Erebor then I shall speak. But the tale is long, longer still than you have heard it, and I wonder, do your young ears yet have patience for its telling?

From the beginning? But the beginning you know now well. It is the details that elude you, little one. It is of these I would now speak anew.

It is said now in the later histories of Ennor that this day would be recounted little upon the histories of the Third Age had it not been for the Ring that the Hobbit Bilbo wore. It is said that this Battle, the Battle of Five Armies, was nothing but a beginning skirmish for the War against Sauron to come. And perhaps, as the minds of Men may rememeber, it was and yet will be. But those who were there that day would speak of it differently, and they would tell not only of the heartbreak but the healing between our two peoples, the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, and the Naugrim of Erebor.

Was I there? Yes, little love. I was there the day that Erebor was won.

Yes, in the end we were victorious. There Bolg was slain by Beorn the Bearskinned, and the orcs of the Misty Mountans laid low and the ruins of Dol Guldor were cleansed of the Enemy for a time. Yet much blood was shed that day, and still needless many lives were lost. There also Thórin fell, and there your father's father and even Fíli were slain beside him, and much that was once good in the world was taken before its time.

Did I love him? But of course, little one. For he was brave and kind and good, how could I not? Yet such a love is indeed forbidden, permitted perhaps not once in a hundred thousand centuries, and only then when the Doom of the Valar wills. How I wish I could have sailed with him into the West, even as Idril and Tuor did so long ago! Would I not have wept before Mandos—before Aulë even, who you know as Mahal—to plead as Lúthien before me? Alas! Alas for the cry of gulls on the shore, and still more so for a babe yet unborn!

Thórin did I name your father, for the love my husband bore him. But you, you I have called Kíli for the love he bore for me. And I would not trade you, little one, not for the Silmaril bound on Eärendil's brow nor the Arkenstone that lies buried with Thórin beneath the Mountain's rest, nor even still for all the days of my long life with your grandfather whom I have loved.

…Who am I?

I am Tauriel i-Dhorndîs, little love, and you are old enough now to know my tale in full.

* * *

AN: Elves often take for themselves many names throughout their lives, Legolas is sometimes known by his (Anglicized) Westron name 'Greenleaf' or as Thranduillion, his father's son; and Arwen is called Úndómiel, the Evenstar of her people. It seemed natural to me that Tauriel might take for herself an eponym as well.

**i-Dhorndîs/Dorndîs**: Sindarin compound of words the+dwarf+bride [i+(soft mutated) dorn+ dîs]. A less literal, more pleasing English translation might read 'the Dwarf-wife'. It can also be rendered in an Anglicized form simply as **Dorndîs**, so Tauriel 'Dwarf-wife' rather than 'the Dwarf-wife'. But given that she's a native Elvish speaker, I left it as is. It could also be rendered **Dornnîs,** as the 'ND' cluster in later Sindarin was shortened to 'NN' [See "Endor/Ennor" as an example.]. Personally, I find the repetition of the 'd' to be more pleasing.

**KÍLIEL FANS: FEEL FREE TO COPY THIS AND SPREAD IT THROUGHOUT THE FANON! **

–love, your übernerdy fellow fangirl (i.e. amateur linguist and Tolkien scholar) friend Lasgalendil

[Note: Hiswelókë's Sindarin English dictionary was used for this original construct. You can find the Strict Analogical English-Sindarin verison here: www. jrrvf hisweloke /sindar /online / sindar/ dict-en-sd-strict. html by removing the spaces]

This is a strange book/movie hybrid, in which Dáin killed Azog at Azanulbizar yet Kíli and Wellwritten!Tauriel are still a couple despite the blatant non-canonicity. Book and/or movie purists, don't even bother: the grey squishy asshole between my ears makes all the rules, not me.

…also, I really hate Kíliel. But this is how an actual Dwarf/Elf relationship *might* appear or effect the canon.


	2. A Song of Starlight

Once long ago, little love, when the world was green and the stars were seen the Elves awoke and walked alone. The Speakers, they called themselves, for there was nothing else within Ilúvatar's creation to posses the power or wisdom of words. We sang in starlight, and heard the music of the Sea. Cuiviénen, it was called, far away and along ago. It is lost to us now, but the memory of it haunts us still, and starlight and shore both call to us.

…They call us away. And it may yet be that during your lifetime there will be none left who walks this Middle-earth. Already the world has emptied, and the Elves will be no more to your children's children save memory and myth.

In Cuiviénen we lived in peace, for a time. But there was one who plagued us in darkness and in doubt. Melkor he was called, in the tongue of the Noldor as a Vala of might, but he was fallen, and Morgoth he was named ever after, our Black Enemy and most grievous foe. First he found us, and long he hunted us to twist us to his will. You know of whom I speak: the _yrch_.

_Orch,_ we named them, and in latter days when Men came and corrupted the tongues they were known as orcs ever after. And indeed, this is how you would have heard of them. Is it not so?

Morgoth spread his black lies about us, and warned us of an enemy even greater still, Oromë, who would stride across the skin of the world upon his flaming steed. He was kind and gentle, and loved us from afar the moment his eyes beheld us; yet we were afraid, and ran, and hid, for against the cunning and deceit of Morgoth even the Powers could not stand.

But the words of Oromë were heard by few, and he took with him three fathers of old to Valinor to behold for themselves its beauty and splendor. Then the Wise Elves, the Sea Elves, and the Deep Elves left as waves ebbing across the shore, forsaking the home of their birth for the promise of long lands and lordships across the Sea. Some lingered along the journey, some also were later Exiled and returned, and of others still no song or word may now tell, save those of the Noldor only, and they would speak but little of their time in Valinor. For those memories are stained now evermore with the bloodshed and folly of Fëanor, and thus was their speech and tongue accursed...

From the beginning you begged me, my love. But very well. You say you know the rest, and I shall believe you, for ever have you loved the songs and tales of the heroes of the Elder Days in the lands that lie now buried beneath the Sea.

The blood of Dúrin the Deathless, Lord of the Longbeards, formed in Valinor by the hands of Mahal himself flows yet in you, little Kíli. And like he of old you shall one day be king. From him to your father's father it ran as pure as a vein of mithril, and perhaps through you he will yet live again. Of him you have heard much, how he was laid to slumber in stone until the coming of the Firstborn, for ever Ilúvatar decreed there would be enmity and striving between the Children of his adoption and the children of his choice. But Dúrin your forefather was older still than the oldest and wisest of the Elves who woke in Cuiviénen, who walked the world before his waking. Do not forget, my love: you are a Dwarf, and of this you must be proud.

But an Elf are you as well, little one. Of your father's father and his people you will have heard much, for indeed the Lady Dís taught my Thórin well. And in him the choice was made, to reclaim the Kingship of Erebor and to renounce the birthright of his Elven blood and the immortality that would be his. You have not the Gift of Men to die, nor the fate of Elves to linger, but are numbered among your father's people, and to him and the keeping of Mahal your maker you must be trust you will be returned. Yet I would have you know as well, little one, of the story of my people, for it may be I am the only left to tell it, and though we must fade and be at last forced upon the long march West, long would I have us be remembered.

No, little love, the blood of the Elven heroes you know of old does not flow in your veins. You are not the son of Finwë who led his people West, or of Elwë, who was lost and strayed, nor even of Ingwë, of whom little now is known. You do not number yourself among the deserters who forsook their ancient home, for your people had no part in the long journey westwards, and their hands were not bloodied by the Kinslaying of Aqualondë nor their hearts stained by horrors of Thangorodrim far away in Beleriand in the First Age. They built not great halls, nor kingdoms, and did no deeds that the lore-masters deemed worthy of song. But they lived simply, and strove together in peace, and dwindled yet when the realms of the Noldor were fallen into ruin and despair. They were here before the Grey Elves of Doriath came across the Forodwaith, claiming the Misty Mountains and the lands of Lórien for their own. Uninvited they came, and stole our homes and hunting grounds, building towers tall and hewing caves of living rock to dwell in as Menegroth of old. Usurpers, we named them, for the second sons and prodigals should have no part in the inheritance of the firstborn and faithful.

For we were here before they abandoned us, and still we stand for yet a little while when they have fled again across the Sea and are no more.

For as we were the first, we will be also the last. Always the Avari: the Unwilling.

* * *

AN: I always imagined the Avari being simpler, yes; but no less proud. I think to them the doings of the Noldor and other peoples creating large kingdoms that were ultimately destroyed might seem both ridiculous and oppressive. Also, Tauriel is apparently a _Silmarillion_ buff. Who knew?


End file.
